"denounced" poems
If I can't be your Daughter,
then I won't be your son.
Forget the shame and
just move on.
The next time you won't see me
I'll be wearing a skirt
and not doing just to please you
would just hurt.
By letting you go there's
nothing I lose,
I care not what you think,
nor of your views.
You should've known anyway,
"A Mother knows" or so they say.
You've run out of time,
I won't wait anymore.
So go and tell that to
the other four.
In fact they too are to leave me alone,
don't knock on my door
and don't try to phone.
You've ignored me too long and
in that time I've grown.
In fact, you've taught me
how to live alone.
The Woman I am has no
fear anymore.
Now walk straight through it,
I'm showing you the door.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
747
It dropped so low—in my Regard—
I heard it hit the Ground—
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind—
Yet blamed the Fate that flung it—less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon my Silver Shelf—
4.7k
I'm the paper man
I witnessed you drop your papers
And refused to help
Because I'm a rolling paper
I'm never stationary
When I float in paper planes
My life starts tearing
When your presence equals pain
For I only saw you
With my paper view
We couldn't be two
When you're pay-per-view
I live a paper life
When the date never leaves the calendar
And people enjoy the satisfaction of cutting me
Like I'm construction paper
So I build to block them away
My face becomes paper mache
Searching for another way
I found relief in a bottle in a paper bag
It wasn't long until I saw the red flags
In the government serving me my papers
Even though I denounced them as takers
They kept pushing paper
My life regimented by municipalities
Burying me in paperwork
Like the employment I attained
To make my life spill off the page
And bleed into your's
Otherwise
Life's a paper chore
And the pirates keep stealing papyrus
That's alright
I've become the paper King Midas
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
Heaven
. . . Have Mercy . . .
Rest, rest, rest, for ye be none,
pitiful Fallen One.
Quivering bows flow over grave strings
bassoons and basset horns ring
pounding timpani’s announce:
Master of the Holy Choir
- - Renounced - -
Vain, fluttering heart
sublimely denounced, scorned;
fouled, ousted:
Horned.
Wailing strings, bassoons,
basset horns, thundering kettle drums
lift angelic voices to glorious requiem.
Pleas for Eternal Light’s remain
in wings refrain.
Heavenly Chorus' cradle to sustain,
mercy to soften
disdain.
The Holy Oracle contests --
to no avail.
Siblings’ choir protests.
Beauty beyond measure,
Angel of pure, Divine tessitura,
Absolution for Thee?
Foretellers of dark illusion
open Holy Scriptures to reveal
the drone of Eternal Damnation:
trumpets of ill
drag Thee to Hell.
Deep, ephemeral rhythms
exalt dancing strings,
seal destinies -- Kiss The Almighty King.
Glory be unto His Majestic Reign,
Will Supreme,
Tremendous,
Powerful, Holy Being.
Scribes record,
recite this dreadful day,
condemn Thee: Fallen One.
trumpets lament, strings mock
this unholy, forbidden way.
Bows flutter -- a memoir
of redemption.
Cries of confusion
dissipate
into muffled choirs,
murmurings
of deliverance.
Delicate chants
beg for forgiveness;
a Soul’s salvation, fusion.
To no avail!
Turbulent strings strike the Holy Duel
in wrath, writhing hatred,
majestic wings tumble --
twist to wrenched ******
Death devours, Birth becomes
the Fallen One.
Angelic dissolution --
distraught, agonized Ethereal,
Eternally beautify
these ghostly, trembling
winds, strings, harpsichord, drums.
Voices of brotherhood remembered,
cushion Angel’s earthly descent.
Breathe into infantile genius
heavenly symphonies
to sweeten a life
trapped, scorned,
condemned,
mourned
Love of God: Amadé
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
Commit ****** then flip an ounce, a nonchalant verse that promotes the internal joust, with
pride earned as the only badge that counts.
Tap the snare drum for a bar, or vibing melody,
our backwards society stereotypes "thugs" as, "what drugs are they selling me?"
Rap is art in raw form,
intended to excite the youth who see death as a norm, the daily street storm.
Women de-humanized for a buck,
men taught to only treat them good if they **** and don't run out of luck.
The concrete jungles can only have just one king upon a throne, as the vicious cyclone continues destroying futures of the youth unless they succeed in the booth.
Youth commit ****** then flip an ounce,
pride earned needs to be denounced.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Lightning striking through a nervous system,
Blood pumping facetious fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of trauma and dreams of the crucifix stand.
The flaming star of the avatar.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark, restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
I rejected asylum, I denounced Gehenna,
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his soft feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest itself.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******** rest.
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
*The time honored
brainstorming
collective planning
a filling blackboard
is now denounced..
storming is thought
thought on thought
wrinkle on wrinkle..
what goes begging
is quantum's leap
a leap waiting
for solitude and
an empty slate...*
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
I don't expect to be forgiven
I don't deserve it
I'm a failure
Denounced
I brought all of this on myself
I am the only one to blame
I've hit rock bottom
I dig outwards
It's war between me, myself and I
No one wins theses battles
They give up too soon
Cowards
The redemption I seek is gone
I have only words now
There's nothing more
Nothing
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
If I praise your poem
you will praise mine
suppose I denounced your poem
for bad usage, grammar, infertility
of thought etc,,What would you Do?
you would abhor my poems and me?
Am I right? are we not subjective?
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
GHETTO GOSPLE.
You aren't born to please anyone, neither accepted by everybody.
But your purpose is to make sure you live good making better thangs, making thangs better.
Spreading love across to each and every one wisely. You're born to rule not ruled. Everyone is meant to live fee free. But it takes bravery to make a living, on the field of struggle, busting and jostling, in search for fortune, get yours, I'd get mine. living in dreams,
getting goals accomplished unyielding. Thinking of living again tomorrow,
when we hadn't none reaped ou'ta momentum. Is there future promised to us at all.?
When we had spent perhaps even the half of our lifetime , achieving nothang.
Stagnated, disdained, and denounced crazy sage, labeled mad. Does it not mean we were plagued? God forbid! Sango in the altar.
History's mystery new testament era. Jesus is Lord a slain Saint sent from above.
Make a melody 🎶 sing to the world, lengthening fasting season.
Faithful journey along with Supreme omniscient ghost. Awe! - C9fm
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 7:40 PM UTC
The magic of the moment appeals to the heart
The essence of self-expression portrays in fine art
Denounced of all logic abstract with precision
Her image appears to lack her intuition
Taunted like bees shaken in a jar
The artist offends her emotional scars
A nerve twitches, the soul excites the old
A mind so wise yet feebly slow
Love as a game extinguishes the flame
A pretty girl in my picture, I’ve forgotten her name
The ways of creativity feed a fire
Her innocence is lost in my desire
Beauty and passion a lust to stay young
The heart beats of wonder before the guilt comes
The wink of an angel the cast of a spell
The adolescent fear of kiss and tell
Broken like glass then falls to the ground
A tender young heart lost and never found
And so the artist hides behind his creation
Only to expose such vague insinuations
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Rest with me
melt languidly into my arms
persistence reprieved
Allow me
grant this moment to pass
productivity be ******
Trust in me
my passion is passion
ambition denounced
Give yourself to me
I understand your value
progress so ill-conceived
I am a dreamer
I fulfill her destiny
I am the place time comes to die
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Please Mel, sing your melody.
Don't die on me.
You are my Great Dark Hope.
Stars shine darkly above you.
Your smile removes all doubt and fright
Oh Mel, might you come out and sing tonight?
I have denounced my father for you.
Blasphemy is just for me because
just an ounce of your tainted love
is all I need.
So sing Mel, sing to your darkling.
Bring me to where the water meets.
The dark moving water of the night's river surround us.
I think it unwise
until I look into your dark eyes
and it tells me otherwise.
So sing to me Mel,
sing your dark melody with purpose.
Bring me down beneath the surface.
Bring me down and drown me.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
“Weights to the body that want all too exercise
Your Muscles want you to energize
Two Fitness Enthusiast were known as the “Iron Brothers”
The movie was centered around Exercise, Physical Transformation, Muscles and Bodybuilding
Yet it was a creation forming a Fitness Enterprise and Bodybuilding Affiliation Organization
Weider Muscles want your attention please
Stand and Flex but move with ease
But there was Rivalry between two George and Joe Weider all having a mission for Bodybuilding with a Higher Recognition Bodybuilding Prize
The convince being a hard realize
So George had a title that was called “Mr. Universe 1940”
Bodybuilders were all competing for the title
However, Weider was denounced to have anyone from his organization to compete, and there was a struggle
But Joe Weider saw a bigger picture of Bodybuilders in creating the “Mr. Olympia 1950”
Victory being on Joe Weider’s mind
But having a magazine that will enhance
The mission was about giving all Bodybuilders the competing chance
Bodybuilding Magazine relaying Bodybuilders and Bodybuilding coverage
Expressing to the world Bodybuilding was a sport
But don’t cut the sport short
It was going to take persuasion and instilling Bodybuilding appreciation
So the journey being a determined mission
Yet, it was on to discover Arnold Schwarzenegger Whose name Joe Weider had heard of
This Writer actually met Arnold Schwarzenegger personally when he was competing during his Bodybuilding days and the title was “Mr. Olympia” in New York City
I met Mr. Schwarzenegger at the Mid-City Gym in New York City
Arnold would often have trouble saying my name Anthony
Today, he would have no trouble saying my name because he was once a California Governor and a Movie Star
However, I was intrigued to see Sergio Olivia, Jr playing his Father in the Movie, Sergio Olivia, SR
What a combination?
Now the Sergio Olivia, Sr was a Cuban Weightlifter, and became a high Ranking Bodybuilder standing with Arnold Schwarzenegger
What makes Sergio Olivia, SR was when he posed in the ***** pose with humongous Lats when it came to Bodybuilding competition
So Sergio Olivia, Jr was following in his father’s footsteps with destination being stardom
But the Mr. Olympia is still the number one Bodybuilding competition today
Joe Weider saw the vision and how Bodybuilding will make the Mr. Olympia competition worthwhile
Are your muscles pumped to perfection?
Joe Weider’s legacy left behind, “Muscles pumped to Victory”
There’s training to be done
It’s Bodybuilding Victory I want all too be among
Yet, remember what I accomplished in looking upon.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
A widow took a stranger to her bed.
This woman was denounced before the law.
She numbly stood and heard her sentence read.
Though I suspect she knew her fate before.
She knelt, silent, in the center of the square.
No neighbor wished to be the first to stone.
At length, the foreign fighters of Isis
Grabbed the rocks and drove the lesson home.
The body, dressed in black, was dragged away.
a streak of red remained the only sign
of the price the law had made a woman pay
for the fleeting pleasure of a lovers arms.
But what of he who joined her in her sin?
He did not share her fate who shared her bed-
a “cooperating witness” for the law.
Strangely just the women wind up dead.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
he told me, "put down the cigarette,"
worried i'd get sick.
i looked at him with regret,
craving nicotine like a nervous tick.
we left around half past twelve,
just to clear the air,
leaving my heart on the shelves.
he asked, "is this really fair?
breaking my heart this way?"
he reiterated his worry.
and i laughed it all away
"don't fret, my honey.
i'm clean and new.
my heart has been glued
and is no longer in two.
i'm eating my food -
see look! my ribs!
they're aren't as pronounced.
maybe one day we really can have kids."
his hand held mine as he denounced
that i was still no good
i was still no better
than before emotions would flood
his heart, i still his debtor.
so on i went,
forward to the waves,
and on this pole i leant,
until i came to with sun's rays...
and i became one with the sea.
she is more than i would ever be.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
*A mother whose mothers' been denounced
blacklist foreseen upon kismet and luck
how the nag strikes bards' such as self
Slosh, quaff, toss off this elapsed bête noire
Repair, reconstruct it wanes with healing
No more sip from the ***
Resort to daft calls toward the sky
Resort to daft kneeling
I am this staunch daughter, a passerby*
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 3:12 AM UTC
i lay at night
wondering what it might be like
to see your eyes when you come undone
and he's in your thighs
and then i remember
how i surrendered that luxury
when i let go of my heart
what a startle it was
when i looked up and found that i was not alone
before my eyes you denounced my lies
and pleaded with my dying soul
but that wasn't nearly enough
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 8:15 PM UTC
A girl was born in Bed–Stuy, Brooklyn on the 30th of June to a family of influence and wealth descending from the very man John C. Calhoun, himself
Lena Horne was a beautiful woman and soul; diversity radiated from her very essence from her spirit itself
Her racial heritage was a mix of African American, Native American, and European descent - family pride and honor came with her family name as the Horne was one of the First Families of Brooklyn
As raised and nurtured in a cosmopolitan sense, she was more than a pretty face and lovely name
The chanteuress was also a civil rights activist who fought for the rights of others, she denounced racism and fought injustice which unfortunately still exists
An epitome of style, elegance, and grace whose charms, bravery, and charisma will never be forgotten; she left an indelible mark in history
Known for her commanding presence, subtle dignity, and strength - she was a powerhouse in her own right
She graced this world with pride and strength; a rare soul and beautiful heart
May her legacy forever shine, cherish, and protect the future generations to follow
She will never be forgotten and always a light for coming tomorrows
Rest in Peace
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Bullets have no feelings
No use in kneeling
Nobody cares that matters.
They never count
The bones that shatter,
The blood that splatters
The lives they ruin.
They don’t know what they’re doing.
They’re thinking with their wallets.
Lining their overstuffed pockets,
They reward their own efforts
Then get together and do the same
For others with too much fame
And too little conscience;
No pity to share,
They don’t care.
We are not there
To them.
Their anthem
Is gouge, overcharge
Fill up a barge with gold.
This graft never grows old
When you are on the receiving end.
Millions to donate? You are a friend.
No riches to date? You are forgotten,
A loser, a user, misbegotten
And no concern of those
With a spoon in their nose
And riches to spend
On a war that never ends
And makes them more and more.
And secret bank accounts don’t score
With the IRS or with the detectives;
As long as our county is defective
They will continue to win.
Again and again.
If you object to this
You need to at least kiss
The ***** of some politicians
Who won’t see their petitions
Ignored, as always before
When someone denounced
The smallest ounce
Of corruption and payoffs
Paid to overpaid jerkoffs
Who are turning our leadership
Into a high-priced sinking ship
Of fools and criminals
Claiming to be intellectuals
When really they are crooks
Cooking the books.
Again and again.
And we never win.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
Splitting the framework of conceptualized demise, demanding council with the potential for immortality found in the roots of a proud, longstanding family tree.
Withdrawals worked out to pay off a longstanding debt with a beat down mentality housed and rehearsed for the sake of a sour state of mind, preserving faltering sainthood.
Ink stains used to stretch the page thin, scraping off fragments of the tatters of a foreign form of progress, denounced with age, but brought back around for a short bout of overtime.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
My journey to purification began on a night where I pretended like you didn't exist.
I denounced myself a pagan of memories,
turned your forgotten words into forbidden hymns,
embraced them in my mouth before I climbed into bed,
and used them to sing myself to sleep
in all of the hours before I did not dream of you.
It was like burning a house with memories in it,
because you need the ashes to reconstruct a new one.
It was like holding your breath even when you're not in water,
because you have experienced drowning and do not want to risk it again.
I kept on telling myself that this was peace- leaving you was not enough so I had to leave myself as well.
Here is a version of me not at war with you- here is a version that is telling itself nothing has changed even though it is barely existing.
Here is a version moving violently around with nothing to restrict it- here is a version dancing whimsically alone.
Here is a version so small it cannot be stampeded on- here is a version so small it cannot hear its own heartbeat.
Here I am trying to struggle free of you,
Fighting myself so that you don't have a chance to.
But as the days go by,
I am hoping only my cocoon loved you.
And the self- inflicted scars will one day stop belonging to me
And,
belong to some other shell,
restricting the body of,
some other boy.
It is a trial to be free when you are an addict of the prison that held you.
I've been teaching myself about how wrong I am-
That I was not born to make a home out of love,
I am too poignant and sensitive
And cannot belong to anything.
Though the chains may be comfortable,
I need to sacrifice ecstasy so I can find a new lifestyle that is not inspired by their heaviness.
I need to find real fulfillment before it's too late.
Before the chains leave me instead of me leaving them-
Before I'm forced to gallop into any new home I see because I was never prepared enough to be able to stand alone.
I want to forget the way I lived for you,
I want to burn everything without feeling the need to say sorry.
Why must I wait for your forgiveness when everytime I find the urge to reconcile myself,
I'm forced to choke out apologies before I even act on anything.
Why must I lie awake unsure of the future,
Seeing things smaller than you trying to fill a void they won't fit in,
Holding me down so that I cannot be bigger than them.
I know now that I am susceptible to allurement as intensely as a mirror susceptible to light,
Because I am now a reflection of a love I barely experienced.
I stay awake in my sheets every night - praying for my own forgiveness,
Even when I have the ability,
To turn things that don't even hurt me into punishments.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Only Sometimes
•Sometimes I whine
When after all
I'm just drunk on alcohol
And In reality I didn't get to lick her
I didn't get to kiss her
I thought adding apple pucker
To my gin
Will pretend to be her lips
But it was only a sip
•Sometimes I whine
When it's time to unwind
And I spritz perfume in the air
And through the midst of it all I realized
That the scent didn't come from off of her skin
Sometimes I pout
When I remember the way in which she denounced
Leaving me to be without
I don't know how to withhold
When I'm alone
So sometimes my mouth tremble
When I have to settle
I don't want to, but
I'm trying to get better
And sometimes I'm a grouch
Excuse some of the things that blurt out of my mouth
It's hard being compatible to the last resort
Sometimes I beg
"Please come back to put a end to my dread"
I don't care if when I leave she feels mislead
Sometimes I'm sad
And to cover it up I brag
Manipulating my hads to haves anyone who know the whole truth
know that I'm a lie and a half
Not all the time I have a way to cope
Sometimes I can't try
Sometimes I just cry
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
The Longest Day
It is Sunday I'm looking out of the window the road is grey as the sky,
so many empty houses, no longer do I hear voices a car stopping
female laughter and the slamming of a car door.
It is said ennui is when the brain is resting, and the Sunday is longer than other days.
I know of a man who built his house on an ancient grave- stones it was strange seeing
those names on the wall, mind he didn't live in the house but in the barn with a mule,
two a cow a dog and several cats.
It was impossible to sleep in the house sighs, knocking sounds and
someone saying “ get me out of here it was all a mistake.” I wonder if the man ever
got to sell his house.
From history, I know of a Viking chieftain got so bored on the day of rest
thinking of *** took out his knife and nailed his left hand to the dinner table,
one can say his brain was over relaxed, pulled out the knife and he denounced this
new faith called Christianity and went back believing in Thor and Odin and not
to forget Valhalla, a place free of monotony.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
I met him at a dust-bowl bus station
In Mobile, where buses wore dust trail capes.
Roaches clicked in the water fountain basin.
With charisma he denounced
The muddled spray of birth and spring,
The spermy apocalypse brought forth by an
Army of mad babies with syphilis-splintered brains.
He had gambled for three nights,
Wonder and reason backing his chips —
Small blind, big blind.
He had the shoulders of a man who locks the door
And hides the key — an invisible traveling carnival
Trailed his gait on a pace-worn floor.
Bed bugs had made Braille of his arm.
He was going off to a camp south of Cabbage Town
Where he would sweat beneath the sun,
Surrender beneath the stars,
And dream of the ten women he’d made.
He told me he hated knowing he was in control,
And that it was the saddest part of the darkest hour.
Aug 18, 2024
Aug 18, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC